“We’re glad it’s done, although we knew it would be done,” said Smith.  “We ain’t much on talkin’, Mr. President, Hank an’ me, but we can shoot pretty straight, an’ we’re at your call.”

“I know that, God bless you both,” said Burnet.  “The talking is over.  It’s rifles that we need and plenty of them.  Now I’ve to see Houston.  We’re to talk over ways and means.”

He hurried away, and the two, settling back into their chairs on the porch, relighted their pipes and smoked calmly.

“Reckon there’ll be nothin’ doin’ for a day or two, Hank,” said Smith.

“Reckon not, but we’ll have to be doin’ a powerful lot later, or be hoofin’ it for the tall timber a thousand miles north.”

“You always was full of sense, Hank.  Now there goes Sam Houston.  Queer stories about his leavin’ Tennessee and his life in the Indian Territory.”

“That’s so, but he’s an honest man, looks far ahead, an’ ‘tween you an’ me, ‘Deaf,’ it’s a thousand to one that he’s to lead us in the war.”

“Reckon you’re guessin’ good.”

Houston, who had just awakened and dressed, was walking across the grass and weeds to meet Burnet.  Not even he, when he looked at the tiny village and the wilderness spreading about it, foresaw how mighty a state was to rise from beginnings so humble and so small.  He and Burnet went back into the convention hall, and he wrote a fiery appeal to the people.  He said that the Alamo was beleaguered and “the citizens of Texas must rally to the aid of our army or it will perish.”

Smith and Karnes remained while the convention continued its work.  They did little ostensibly but smoke their cob pipes, but they observed everything and thought deeply.  On Sunday morning, five days after the men had gathered at Washington, as they stood at the edge of the little town they saw a man galloping over the prairie.  Neither spoke, but watched him for a while, as the unknown came on, lashing a tired horse.

“’Pears to be in a hurry,” said Smith.

“An’ to be in a hurry generally means somethin’ in these parts,” said Karnes.

“I’m makin’ ’a guess.”

“So am I, an’ yours is the same as mine.  He comes from the Alamo.”

Others now saw the man, and there was a rush toward him.  His horse fell at the edge of the town, but the rider sprang to his feet and came toward the group, which included both Houston and Burnet.  He was a wild figure, face and clothing covered with dust.  But he recognized Houston and turned to him at once.

“You’re General Houston, and I’m from the Alamo,” he said.  “I bring a message from Colonel Travis.”

There was a sudden and heavy intake of breath in the whole group.

“Then the Alamo has not fallen?” said Houston.

“Not when I left, but that was three days ago.  Here is the letter.”

It was the last letter of Travis, concluding with the words:  “God and Texas; victory or death.”  But when the messenger put the letter into the hands of Houston the Alamo had fallen two hours before.